The Mark Of Iisilée

by T P Sheehan

  “All of Allumbreve held in such a simple thing,” the High Priest said, examining the pebble in the light. He turned it about, examining the detail. “It serves to reflect on such things at times.”

  Magnus studied the priest’s features in the broken light. Unlike the other priests, whose dragon markings covered the left side of their heads, this High Priest had markings over his entire bald head. He wondered if it meant he possessed greater power than the other priests. Perhaps it was ornamental like the great statue of Balgur in the Temple. To Magnus, he certainly looked more intimidating. He remembered the first time he ever saw a priest. It was Austagia, back at Catanya’s family home before he took her away from him. Magnus found Austagia so intimidating at the time. Now, he saw him as most other men. He took a step closer to the High Priest.

  “I underestimated you,” the priest said. Magnus looked but said nothing. The priest’s eyes shifted to Magnus and seemed to lock on. Magnus felt no disturbance in his thoughts but nevertheless, he was wary. “I can take time to reflect on you now.”

  The priest’s stare continued, making Magnus feel awkward. He looked away and saw Catanya walking toward him. Eamon was there and took her by the arm. Catanya turned and Eamon spoke. Magnus imagined their conversation—‘Leave them to talk, Catanya, he is perfectly safe.’

  “I see the young Irucantî survived. This pleases you?”

  This time, Magnus let his eyes fall darkly on the High Priest. His mouth filled with sharp words, but he swallowed them back. “Does it please you?”

  “Your first words are not of derision, nor contempt. That pleases me.”

  Magnus started to walk away. He found the priest’s indifference to Catanya too much to stomach. Furthermore, he sensed he was in for a pretentious debate that he was not in the mood for.

  “Electus. We need to speak,” the priest called after him.

  That’s more like it. Magnus turned and approached the door of the cell again.

  “We should speak candidly to one another.” The priest rose to his feet.

  “We should.”

  “I imagine you intend to return to the Uydferlands. To defeat the Quag army.”

  “That is my intention. Why was it not yours when they first attacked?”

  “It is a complicated matter.”

  “Just as well we’re speaking candidly to one another.”

  “Indeed.” The Priest arrived at a pause.

  There it is—the calculating mind at work, Magnus observed. “Look, if there’s a reason we should not be protecting our people, you need to tell us before we go to our deaths.” Magnus was hoping the priest would get to the point.

  “There are several reasons. Will you afford me the time to explain each of them? Only then will you see the dangerous predicaments we have been facing.”

  Magnus sat cross-legged on the ground beside the prison door and waited for the High Priest to explain.

  “Firstly, the battle in the Uydferlands is a ruse. To understand the purpose of this ruse, you need to understand why the Romghold exists. Do you know why the Irucantî have long resided in the Romgnian Mountains, so far from our homelands of the Fire Realm?”

  The first thought that came to Magnus’s mind was his father’s contempt for the dragons not being in the Fire Realm to protect their people. It was not until the war broke out that Magnus gave it any real consideration himself and then, he wondered why they were not returning home. He had a feeling he was about to find out.

  “For their own protection?” Magnus answered.

  “Yes. Quag armies cannot breach the Romghold. The closest they got was the Southern Plains during the Battle of Fire. If such a battle were waged on the plains of the Fire Realm, we may have been destroyed.”

  Magnus thought it made sense. Then again—“If people of the Fire Realm have managed to hold the Quag armies at bay in the Uydferlands, why would you have any trouble defeating them?”

  “Because this is not a war. As I said—it is a ruse.”

  “In what way?”

  “Delvion places just enough warriors and wyverns to keep Xavier and his soldiers busy—extremely busy, but no more. He hoped this would create a knee-jerk reaction, leading us to mount a defence and empty the Romghold of all our resources. Then a true war would start.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Caves of Cuvee harbour Delvion’s true armies. All manner of man and beast, numbered in the thousands, lie dormant, waiting to attack. Such caves have many exits throughout Allumbreve as far north as Froughton Forest and as far south as the Black Cliffs. Once in motion, Delvion’s armies would prevent a retreat to the Romghold, force us to fight in open combat and most likely destroy us.”

  Magnus thought of the worgriel attack in the wheat fields near Brindle. The blacksmith—Willem—spoke of three known exits in the Black Cliffs at Ba’rrat, Brindle and Thwax. As for Delvion’s armies hidden in the Caves of Cuvee, Austagia told Magnus he had discovered their presence in the caves just days ago. Magnus was about to question the High Priest about his secrecy on the matter when he recalled something his father used to say to him—‘He who withholds information from you considers himself your master.’ Magnus scanned the priest over, wondering what other secrets he was yet to learn.

  “So, you believe this ‘ruse’ is to draw you into an even greater battle?” Magnus asked.

  “Greater than the Battle of Fire. The real destruction of the Fire Realm would follow.”

  Magnus nodded to suggest he understood and yet, he was no closer to trusting the priest who ordered his assassination and blackmailed Brue and Liné.

  “What were the other reasons for holding back? You said there were several.”

  “You’ll need patience to understand this. Do I have your ear?”

  “Aye.”

  “Twenty years ago, during the Battle of Fire, all of Allumbreve learned a powerful secret.”

  Magnus knew what he was going to say. This is what Joffren revealed to him when he infiltrated his mind with the Juniper stone. Joffren revealed how the High Priests desperately wanted the power afforded the Electi of the other realms. “The existence of the Electi,” Magnus said.

  “Exactly,” the High Priest agreed.

  “You wanted it for yourselves.”

  “That is how is appears—yes. This is where you need to listen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There is a potential civil war brewing among the realms. A silent power struggle ensues. The realms of Ice, Air and Earth build strength through their Electi and are able to use these powers, once afforded to dragons alone, at their discretion. While these three realms appear to have hidden away from the world, we have learned they are each breeding a race of Electi warriors—descended from their chosen ones.”

  Magnus had no knowledge of the Air and Earth Realms but knew what he said was untrue of the Ice Realm. He and his mother were the only Ice Realm Electi remaining. Magnus wondered if the High Priest was ill informed or building a ruse of his own to justify his ambitions. He did not believe the priest to be ill informed. Nevertheless, he decided to humour him.

  “You find this a threat? Ours is the only realm with dragons to fight for us.”

  “Perhaps. But are we to trust their Electi to be as virtuous with their powers as their dragons once were?”

  “Were the Electi not chosen for their virtue?”

  “Generations have passed since their original Electi were chosen. We face the progeny of such chosen ones. Are the virtues of their forefathers inherited along with their powers? Virtue can be a struggle for those born into power.” What the priest said made sense but the thought was unsettling. “It does not rest well in the mind, does it?”

  It did not rest well in his mind. Then again, no matter how Magnus saw it, the High Priest craved for power. “You didn’t answer my question. Why do you need such power when our dragons are still strong?”

  “If our dragons are defeated by Delvion’s army and you
, the Electus, are our only source of such power, we become vulnerable not only to the Quag, but against a multigenerational army of Electi.”

  Magnus thought he knew where the High Priest was going with his explanations. “So you think the Irucantî need to create an Electus and breed an army of Electi, ready for the inevitable?”

  “We tried to convince our dragons to create multiple Electi from highly trained Irucantî. Our purpose was always to be the greatest warriors and forge the closest relationship with our dragons. By keeping Electi within our fold, we keep that relationship going. However, our dragons insisted—there would only ever be one Electus chosen by them. Conceding, we urged them to make a choice. The dragons insisted this was a process to be decided in its own time.”

  Magnus’s mind was turning over everything the High Priest was telling him. Things were beginning to make sense, but far from everything. “I was chosen as the Electus. You tried to assassinate me. You tried to assassinate Catanya! Where does this fit in to your plan?”

  “Word spread throughout the lands of an exceptional slave-warrior in Ba’rrat calling himself ‘Balgur’. This gained our attention—particularly after Thioci’s death. With no clear knowledge as to your origins or motives, you were considered too dangerous. Once eliminated, there would be no choice but for our dragons to choose another Electus—preferably from our superior order of warriors.” The priest paused. “As for the young Irucantî, she was of no concern to us. That was Joffren’s decision.”

  Magnus thought the priest’s reasoning was cold-blooded, yet sound. There was more that needed answering, however, before he could accept the priest’s words.

  “How was holding Liné’s egg for ransom going to work for you?” Magnus was sure the High Priest would be at a loss for words at this point. It would make everything he said until now a complete farce. The priest, though, seemed to have an answer for everything.

  “Only Liné and Brue knew of your existence, being parents to the deceased youngling—Thioci. They would never support your assassination. By withholding their unhatched egg, Brue became more… amenable. The rest of the dragons left for Ba’rrat under the pretence they were bringing down Delvion.”

  Magnus stared hard at the High Priest. He could not believe the boldness with which he confessed to manipulating Brue. Catanya had described the High Priests as arrogant. He saw it himself in the Temple of Fire, but only now could Magnus truly put it into perspective. They truly believe they are of a higher order than even the dragons. Magnus remembered what Brue told him—‘We each form a unique link. There is no hierarchy—no pyramid of importance.’ This was in such contrast to the High Priests’ beliefs.

  “Desperate times called for desperate measures, Semsdër-Fatel.”

  “You never considered the consequences once Liné got her egg back?” Magnus could not take his eyes off the priest—curious to hear his answer.

  “It was a means to an end. As I said earlier, I underestimated you. I also underestimated our youngest recruit.” The priest looked down the path to where Catanya was pacing back and forth, biting her nails nervously while Magnus spoke to the priest.

  Magnus ran everything the High Priest told him through his mind. As much as he disagreed with his methods, what he said at least made sense. This whole debacle began back in his homelands. Magnus remembered being in his family kitchen with his mother and father. His mother had just ridden half the length of Realms End—from Overpell to Froughton Forest—and discovered the guards had left their posts. Magnus later learned it was the Authoritarium who afforded Crugion, Briet and the rest of the Quag access into the Fire Realm.

  Magnus wondered—“What are your concerns about the Authoritarium? Was it not them that told you and the dragons to cease their guard of Realms End years ago and then remove the knights from their posts prior to this ‘ruse’ of a war?”

  “It was. But there is no need to be concerned about the Authoritarium. They have been destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? By whom?” Magnus stood with his face at the prison cell bars.

  “I thought you of all people would know.” The priest came to the bars and stood nose to nose with Magnus.

  “Why would I know?”

  “It was the Rhydermere who killed the elders of the Authoritarium. And it was your mother who killed Trager—their leader.”

  Magnus took two steps back from the cell door. “You are lying.”

  “The Rhydermere have placed Guame under martial law. Your mother declares the Rhydermere ‘rulers of the four realms’ with herself as their leader.” The priest gripped the bars of the cell door and pulled himself forward. “You can see, then, my concern when the Electus of our realm carries the blood of our new enemy.”

  ‘ONE’

  “Did you kill her?”

  Lucas stood in Delvion’s chamber. To Lucas, it was darker than any other crevice, tunnel or shadow within the Caves of Cuvee. The darkness shifted with Delvion. Wherever the Quag King went, the darkness followed and it always summoned Lucas—drew him to Delvion such that he rarely left his side, except to sleep.

  “I said, did you kill her?”

  “I couldn’t do it.” Lucas felt his words wheeze from his mouth—heard the weakness in his own conviction.

  “What did you say?” Delvion flashed his dark, deep-set eyes at Lucas. They usually penetrated his mind and ran inventory on his peripheral thoughts. Delvion was never able to penetrate his mind to the real truth behind his strength. His sorcerers could, but Lucas saw to it they would only get so far before he killed them. This time, Delvion was struggling to get in at all. He squinted—confirming his control over Lucas had slipped for a moment.

  He will be wary until he regains control…

  “Come. We shall do it together.”

  Lucas followed Delvion through the primary corridor leading to the armoury cave. His eyes glanced to the floor at Delvion’s feet, watching the tips of his black blades protruding from his large, dark cloak. He knew in a moment he could take possession of the Quag King’s blades and drive them through his back, his heart, and out through his chest. He considered the option as he always considered such clandestine things—in the shadow of his darkest thoughts. This shadow had always been there, even as a child. It was a place to tuck away darker thoughts of self-doubt and derision from those who thought they were better than him or doubted his abilities. It was often easier than proving them wrong. When poisoned by the wyvern in the Uydferlands, Lucas was drawn to this place. He developed an insatiable desire to linger on his darker thoughts and, for the first time, he was not alone. The wyvern had found his shadow. From here, Lucas’s world seemed to cave in around him. Then he met her.

  The wyvern queen…

  He was close to death when the queen infiltrated his mind, acknowledging Lucas’s pain. She nursed him back to health. Lucas had felt the fierce strength of her blood and the maternal warmth of her milk flood his decaying body and breathe new life into him. The queen found Lucas’s shadow and presented it to him—reminding him of every dark thought he had ever had. She taught him how to use those thoughts. They could provide him with a dark, satisfying strength. Delvion had exploited this strength, but would never know its source and never truly know the bond he had with the queen.

  Delvion strode across the cave floor to a rack of freshly forged domblaus blades—‘black blades’. These bulky, burnished blades were slightly curved, sharp and waiting to be stained with wyvern venom. During battle, the Quag would lick the blades to elicit hallucinations and trigger gretaro—‘war-rage’. Lucas had the same venom coursing through his body at all times. Delvion’s men called him Gretarior—‘War-rager’. It was not considered conducive to be in this state on a regular basis and indeed, Quag warriors would steer clear of their common clansfolk following battle until the effects of the venom wore off to ensure their ‘rage’ would not lead to collateral damage. To Delvion’s men, Lucas was collateral damage waiting to happen.

  Delvion drew one o
f the domblaus blades from the rack and handed it to Lucas. “Take it.”

  “I need my sword.”

  “It is gone. Take it.” Lucas did as told, holding the black blade as one would a dagger. “You’ve a choice. Use sorcery or a blade. Either way, you must show loyalty.” Delvion pointed to a tunnel feeding off the far side of the cave. “It is time. Kill her.”

  Lucas looked to the ground again. He retreated into his shadow. The queen knew he was there—he could hear her thoughts as she could his. “I cannot,” Lucas mumbled.

  At the click of Delvion’s fingers, two Quagmen approached Lucas with blades drawn. Lucas pointed a finger at the larger of the two men and let anger brew in his hidden shadow. It brewed thick and dark until it began to seep from his mind, through his body before finally leaching from the pores in his hands as a shadowy black mist. It felt so good—like he was expressing his inner pains without the need for words. The mist took shape forming their poisonous black tentacles. Something though, was not right.

  Lucas looked at the sorcerous black strands coming from his hands and suddenly they appeared as living, writhing creatures of death. The large Quagman saw the black magic and was quick to step away from Lucas. His companion backed away too. Barely noticing their retreat, Lucas caught a vision of what he was doing. He was outside his own body, watching a phantom-like reflection of himself frothing and foaming with anger, the syrupy vines of blackness oozing from his grey, clammy skin. It was a revolting sight. Startled, he found he was inside himself again and shook his hand frantically until the black poison vaporised.